In others she excused much that she could not have
excused in herself,--for the heritage of righteousness had come
down to her through a long line of staunch upholders.
She loved life. She craved companionship. She could afford
to gratify her desires. Week-ends found two or more guests at her
home,--friends from the city up the river. Sometimes there were
visitors from Chicago, Indianapolis and other places,--girls she
had met at school, or in her travels, or in the canteen. Early in
the war her house was headquarters for the local Red Cross workers,
the knitters, the bandage rollers, and so on, but after the entry
of the United States into the conflict, most of her time was spent
away from Windomville in the more intense activities delegated to
women.
She attended the theatre when anything worth while came to the
city, frequently taking one or two of the village people with her.
Once, as she was leaving the theatre, she heard herself discussed
by persons in the aisle behind.
"That's Alix Crown. I'll tell you all about her when we get home.
Her father and mother were murdered years ago and buried in a well
or something. I wish she'd turn around so that you could get a good
look at her face. She's quite pretty and--"
And she had deliberately turned to face the speaker, who never
forgot the cold, unwavering stare that caused her to lower her own
eyes and her voice to trail off into a confused mumble.
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